


On Your Way Down

by paintingoncobwebs



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 00:20:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintingoncobwebs/pseuds/paintingoncobwebs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter cannot reasonably be expected to stay all night trading barbs with Henry but, of everyone on the island, it’s Henry who Peter needs to make time for. </p>
<p>Missing scene fic from Lost Girl. How Peter got ahold of Henry’s clothes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Your Way Down

The child runs and Peter notices that he’s faster when there’s someone with him. Someone he needs to keep up with or, perhaps, someone he needs to keep up for. Together, they had made much better time. 

Peter’s been following him, unseen and unheard, for all of eight minutes. He takes the shortcut routes and hits up vantage points; two or three times, if Henry had just _looked_ , he would have seen him. But the child keeps his eyes trained forward and doesn’t acknowledge potential distractions.

Peter had, in fact, given Henry wise council when he’d informed him that the Lost Boys were in tune with every grain of sand upon the island. He had thought, at the time, that Henry had believed him, but watching this frivolous little endeavor...

Either Henry believed him a liar or he’s just that stupid.

Peter hasn’t yet made up his mind which.

Peter can run for days without growing tired and, under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t much mind, but these are not normal circumstances and this is not a typical day. He has to put a stop to this, even though it makes him feel like some sort of disapproving father.

Peter doesn’t tell people ‘no’ very often. But, then, people generally avoid putting him in positions where it needs to be said.

The woodland is thick in this part of the forest and it’s not hard to maneuver around the brush and trees to cut Henry off. It’s not, in fact, hard to do it with style either. Peter slouches lazily against a tree and waits for Henry to be just feet away before saying, “If you run away now, how will they ever find you?” 

Henry doesn’t try to outrun the sound of his voice, he spins around instantaneously, not even bothering to slow his stride. It’s an awkward movement and the child very nearly overbalances.

“And they _will_ find you, Henry.”

Henry stutters for a moment, trying to catch his breath. “I know that. _I_ told _you_ that.”

“So you did.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to sit tight and wait around to be rescued.”

Sure, but as current events speak differently Peter thinks they should be taken into account.

“I agree,” he says, “and I wouldn’t recommend otherwise.”

Henry narrows his eyes suspiciously and Peter pushes away from the tree. The kid takes a startled half step backwards so Peter pauses and waits for him to regroup. “I have something for you,” he says, sliding a bag from his shoulders to present to Henry.

“What is it?” Henry asks, steeling himself and holding his chin higher. Chagrined by his own fear.

Peter stretches to hold the satchel out at arm’s length. “Come and see.”

For a moment Peter thinks the boy’s curiosity won’t be enough to outweigh his anger. Encouragingly, he shakes the strap and the bag waves back and forth invitingly. “It won’t bite, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“It’s not,” Henry says, boldly. His determined march to Peter’s side isn’t stubborn or hardheaded but it still comes across rather childish. “I know you’re not going to hurt me. You need me.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll find out. Or my moms will before they--”

“Kill me?”

Henry’s lips part, looking halfway towards horrified at Peter’s choice of interpretation. 

“It’s quite all right, Henry. No offense taken. At all. And you are right, I do need you.”

Henry nods, blinking away rattled nerves, and steps only close enough that he can stretch out his arm and have his fingers reach.

He’s just brushing the fabric of the bag when Peter strikes out, fast as the deadliest snake and twice as dangerous.

The snake will only kill you.

He pulls Henry to him and his grip isn’t so tight that Henry can’t wrench himself free with one sharp tug, but the child only makes a brief parody of a struggle.

Henry doesn’t want to get away. He wants to see where Peter is leading more than he wants to keep his distance. 

“But don’t mistake that for protection.” Henry’s small and easy to tower over. Peter’s able to invade his space and force the kid to bend his neck awkwardly back to look up into his eyes. “What did I tell you, Henry? What do you possesses that was worth crossing realms to find?”

Henry swallows and Peter takes that as a confirmation that he remembers. “I don’t need you in one piece. I don’t need your fingers or toes. I don’t need you to see me or hear me. And if your parents are so very desperate, Henry, they might like a token of you.”

“You’re a liar Peter Pan, and everyone knows that.”

“Do they? Oh, is this about the false rescue? Come now, Henry. It wasn’t _so_ wicked a game.” 

But it was, and Peter knows better than to push the topic.

Henry’s eleven. A true, legitimate, eleven. He believes in happy endings and that good will triumph. He believes in a parents’ ability to protect and that love is enough to change the world.

Henry was in Neverland for ten minutes before he personally witnessed cold blooded murder.

It’s not death that makes Peter’s boys cry, but it might keep Henry up tonight.

“And,” Peter smiles winningly, “I did keep you safe.”

Henry scoffs, “From yourself.”

There’s an interesting intonation to the words. He speaks as though the topic is old hat. 

He’s said these words before. He’s _believed_ them before, because if there’s one thing Peter knows, it’s how much time and effort a kid has spent believing a thing.

“It counts?” Peter offers weakly, angling for an apology accepted.

Henry shakes his head once, scornfully, and Peter thrusts the bag into his hands and steps back.

Henry stares a second more before giving up the subject and looking inside. He frowns. “Clothes?” 

The one gift no child wants to receive.

“I’m not a Lost Boy,” Henry says, “and I don’t want to be one.”

“It’s not about recruiting you.”

“What is it about?”

Peter smiles, though he has a sinking feeling he’s going to have to lower himself into manipulating a child over a wardrobe change. “I like your curiosity.”

“No, you don’t.”

“It’s not a leash and collar. You’re over thinking it.”

“Doubt it.”

“You are,” Peter promises, “Cross my heart.” He even gives the proper hand motions. “Try to trust me, Henry. I’m all you’ve got now.”

“ _Now_ ,” Henry concurs. “But I‘m all you’ve got when my moms get here.” 

Actually, Peter thinks that’s a rather delicious threat.

“Fair enough,” he concedes. “I’ve been hoping for a mutual respect between us for _ages_. I do want to work together. I want to be on your side.”

Henry rolls his eyes at Peter’s earnest little speech. “So long as my side agrees with your plans. Won’t work,” Henry says aggressively. “Smarter people than you have tried.”

“Yes,” Peter says, “I heard about that.”

Henry mumbles a deadpan, “Of course.” But it _is_ true. 

Very, very true.

However... Peter doesn’t buy it, and he doesn’t think Henry believes it to be the truth either.

Peter’s intel on Henry’s life was so absurdly biased against Regina that he had to do more than read between the lines; he had to insert his own educated guesses based on what he’s seen of mothers, good and bad, throughout his existence.

“The brunette one. Her majesty. Not a fan of fair play, is she?”

Henry puffs up, proud and insolent. “No. She’s not.”

Peter raises an eyebrow, not quite sure what there is to admire about someone who can’t defeat an enemy without a shortcut cheaters approach.

He supposes it depends on what one is using their underhanded skills for.

“She doesn’t really count though, does she? You only hate her.”

Henry blinks, surprised. “I don’t--”

“Emma’s the one it’s really about, isn’t it? The Savior. The _real_ mother. The one who didn’t want you.”

“What? No. You’re wrong.” For a child, Henry sounds quite self-possessed. “You’re _all_ wrong.” His intonation is perfectly pitched to display what he thinks. What he doesn’t think. How he thinks.

And how he doesn’t think.

It doesn’t even occur to Henry to doubt his mother’s love.

“No, I know. She wants you _now_.”

“She _always_ wanted me. She did what she had to do. For me.”

“Come now, Henry. You’re being purposefully naïve. She did it for herself. And she’d do it again.”

Henry frowns and looks coldly at him.

Peter spreads his hands in a gesture of apology and amends, “She did it _also_ for herself.” He tilts his head with the implication that he’d like a response to his correction and Henry shrugs.

“What about yours?” Henry asks, like he’s been struck with an epiphany. “What happened to your parents? You must have had some, everyone does...”

It’s a fair question, for all the fixating being done on Henry’s. Peter looks down for a moment, considering, and then nods.

“We didn’t get along.”

“Why not?”

“For the same reason any child doesn’t get along with their parents. They had rules,” Peter says, wrapping his hand around the hilt of his dagger, “and I didn’t like them." In one sharp move he rips it from its sheath and holds it out between them.

Peter steps forward but Henry holds his ground, looking apprehensively at the blade

“They wanted a proper little gentlemen and I... I just wanted to be a kid.”

“So you-you left?” Henry asks hopefully, looking between the dagger and Peter with a sinking stomach.

Peter shakes his head and says, “Yes. But first...” the tip of the metal brushes against the fabric of Henry’s coat as Peter’s draws it up, belly to sternum. “I gutted her.” He deadpans, shifting his hold on the dagger to slide it carefully across Henry’s throat. “And sliced him.”

The child trips over himself in his haste to put distance between them. His are eyes wide, hilariously, bordering on the caricature, wide.

Peter laughs at the sight of it. “I’m sorry,” he says, stepping forward to hold a helping hand out to Henry. “I am.” Henry just crawls back further away, even as he struggles to his feet. “I am! That didn’t happen.”

Henry looks angry and offended and Peter supposes that’s as close as he’s going to get to having his apology accepted. “It was a lie,” he promises softly.

Peter flips the knife in his hand, watching as the moonlight catches the blade and shines across the trees. “The look in your eyes, though.” He points the dagger accusingly at Henry, beckoning his attention. “You really don’t know what to make of me, do you?”

“I know,” Henry says disgust. “I know exactly what you are. You’re--”

Peter holds up his hand to forestall the obvious. “I understand our roles. I’m the bad guy. Emma’s the hero. And you... You’re her reward, should she succeed. 

“And everyone else is... expendable.”

“I didn’t say that. Nobody is ‘expendable.’” Henry says, frowning.

Henry looks like he’s concerned about this road so Peter assures him, “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t tell them.”

“No. It’s just-- It’s just that... You’re right.” Peter smiles in Henry’s acknowledgement. “There’s good and there’s evil. But not being good _is_ just another way of being evil.”

Peter laughs. “You’re too much, Henry.”

“Maybe not evil, but bad.”

“Your mother, the other one,” Peter says, dismissively, more or less to get a rise out of the boy, “taught you that, didn’t she? That ‘bad’ is ‘expendable.’”

Henry flounders for a moment before refusing to rise to the bait. Instead, he huffs, “You’re twisting my words.”

“I know.”

Henry glares.

“Well,” Peter says reasonably, “I’d stop doing it if you started listening.”

“Yeah,” Henry says, visibly trying not to work himself up into a state, “but you won’t listen either.”

“Won’t I, though? Just that... you haven’t tried very hard to convince me.”

Henry’s resolve not to let himself get worked up visibly cracks.

“Well, you haven’t.” Peter reiterates. “Oh well. To err is human, I suppose.”

“Are... And are you?”

Peter frowns, shaking his head in confusion.

“Are you human?”

Peter’s lips part, startled into a momentary silence. He doesn’t know if Henry is speaking literally or metaphorically, or if a profound question just managed to accidently tumble out of him.

“Maybe,” Henry says, latching onto this new idea, “you aren’t. Maybe you’ve been here so long, in Neverland, not growing up, that you’ve forgotten how to be.”

He watches as Henry works his way around to a conclusion. Peter does so hope it lands on a beneficial one. _The most_ beneficial one, in fact. The age old seduction: can a person be controlled through friendship?

Or... Redeemed.

Right.

It’s ‘redeemed.’

“You have,” Henry nods, “haven’t you?”

“It’s crossed my mind.”

It has, in actuality, done more than cross his mind. It’s cemented itself there and deemed itself fact.

“And the rest too,” Henry continues, “And _me_ , too?” he shakes his head, “Won’t happen. I like who I am and I don’t want to change. I believe in myself, I always have.”

“The truest of beliefs?”

“Nope. I’m just not stupid.”

Peter smiles, a genuine and charmed smile. “A truce, then?” he offers. “Your family’s a long way from here, kid, and until they arrive, if they arrive,” he shrugs, “As I said; I’m what you’ve got.”

Henry deliberates over it.

Time is ticking down for Peter and, reasonably, he cannot stay here all night trading barbs with Henry.

But...

Reasonably, it’s _Henry_ who Peter needs to make time for. It won’t be the end of the world to have Felix lead a band to head off the intrepid heroes. To crack their morale.

At length Henry shrugs. He holds up the bag pointedly. “Do you mind?”

Peter stares flatly at him and Henry returns the expression. With interest.

It’s an incredibly silly thing to be shy about on island full of boys but, Peter supposes, it’s not really about modesty at all.

No.

The kid’s going to run, the second Peter turns his back. 

It’s a cheap and juvenile escape attempt but Peter figures he can work it with, so he acquiesces. Facing away from Henry, he holds his hands out at his sides, hoping to convey, ‘there now. Are you happy?’

“Thanks.”

“Of course.”

The rustle of the bags proves Henry’s going through them, but Peter can feel the instantaneous shift in the atmosphere. Tense. Apprehensive. Swelling with nervous triumph.

“You see, Henry,” Peter says, because everyone knows that a proper villain needs to monologue at inappropriate times. “It’s not about killing you, nor hurting you. In fact, I’m actively avoiding it.” There are two slow and hesitant footsteps behind him. Peter rolls his eyes. “I don’t want your pain any more than you do.” A twig snaps, further away than Peter would have assumed Henry’s small stride realistically capable.

Peter slowly, and very deliberately, enunciates, “Just your obedience.” He can _feel_ Henry’s instinctual awareness that he’s being caught out. “Which I will get.”

The bag subtly, amusingly discreet, drops to the ground.

The second Peter starts to turn around, Henry bolts off at full speed. Peter raises his voice to be heard over the sound of leaves crunching and twigs snapping. “Some people respond best to positive reinforcement,” he says, flipping the dagger in his hands and training his eyes on Henry.

Some say math is boring, and they are correct, but instinct will only take you so far. Henry runs in a straight line, not even trying to make himself a trickier target, and it makes it easy to calculate his trajectory and speed. “And some,” Peter says as he pulls back his arm and chucks the dagger with all the strength he reasonably, at least without a great deal of the supernatural, possesses. “Some people respond best to negative reinforcement.” 

The blade pierces Henry’s jacket, because Peter wasn’t lying about actively avoiding his pain, and the force hurls the kid sidewise, slamming into a tree with a startled, “Woah!” as the dagger imbeds itself into the wood.

Alright, yes, perhaps there was more magic involved than Peter really intended there to be.

Henry pulls at the dagger but it’s a fruitless attempt. An eleven year old with spoiled, unworked muscles is not going to be able to wrench it free.

“If one doesn’t work,” Peter says, stooping down to pick up the fallen satchel, “I _will_ try the other.”

Peter insolently takes his time walking to Henry. 

“Don’t you dare look surprised,” Peter says, donning his best Big Brother voice for the only child, as the closer he gets the more frantically Henry tries to pull free. “That was a terrible escape attempt. You should be embarrassed, not afraid.”

Henry begins fighting his coat to wrestle himself free and Peter launches forward, slamming his hand on the opposite side and trapping the kid between the dagger and his arm. Henry grabs Peter’s wrist immediately, as though he’s afraid of being hit.

“Let me go!” He yells, even though Peter’s close enough that he can feel the kid’s breath against his face.

It’s a pointless, filler request. “You know I will.” Of course Henry won’t be abandoned here all night.

“...Good.” Henry says, and when Peter doesn’t move he demands, “Now.”

“I have a request first.”

“I’ll put on your stupid costume.”

“Yes. I know.” That’s always been a fact. 

Because Peter doesn’t want to repeat himself the silence stretches. The kid begins to look uneasy and then he begins to look exasperated. “What is it? What do you want?”

Peter smiles. “Entertain, for a moment, the possibility that your family is not coming.”

Henry lets go of Peter’s arm in favor of giving another tug at the dagger, perfectly, if not childishly, expressing he’d rather just futilely carry on with his own desperate attempts than acquiesce to mind games. 

“Just this once,” Peter says, “and I won’t ask again. I want to clarify something for you.”

“Fine. _If you_ ‘entertain’ that they are.”

“Pardon?”

Henry raises his eyebrow. He truly believes Peter can’t win against his superhero mothers. “Very well,” Peter nods. “Truth be told, I have thought about it. The Savior,” Henry beams at the honorific, “crashing through the island, swinging her sword. Scouring the villages and ransacking the homes. The Queen--”

Henry scowls. As it turns out a Savior is a good thing to be. A Queen, not so much. “Her name is _Regina._ ”

“Queen Regina.” Peter corrects, cheekily. “Lighting the forests on fire. Perhaps slaughtering the children. Certainly wounding them. The skies filled with smoke and the rivers running with blood.

“War, Henry, is what I envision. And not with wooden swords, time outs or pixie dust.”

It’s not... entirely a lie. Peter doubts they’d ever be able to devastate _his_ island, but he also doesn’t think all his boys will make it out.

Just as he knows Emma’s won’t.

“They’ll kill to protect what’s theirs and I’ll kill to protect what’s mine. And then there _you_ will be, Henry,” Peter taps the end of Henry’s nose, a playful sort of gesture for a terrible sort of thought. For a horrible implication. “Safe and sound in the middle of it.”

Henry pales and looks afraid, truly afraid. He stutters, “And you-you, think... Are you saying... If I choose to stay here no one will--”

“Your turn.” Peter says, cutting him off. He’d rather have this dilemma rattling about in the kid’s head, the worry gaining more and more traction as he thinks it over. Speaking it through would only serve to help analyze and question and deal with the anxiety.

The idea that Henry can end it all, save everyone, simply by telling his mothers to go home.

Yes. Wonderful.

The first words out of Henry’s mouth are trembling and hesitant. He has to shake his head to expel the horrific image Peter’s created. “ _If_ they weren’t, I suppose you’d... kill me?” Peter runs his fingers down Henry’s scarf but doesn’t confirm or deny it. He curious to see where Henry’s thought process is wont to go. “Or I’d just be prisoner. Forever. Or...”

Peter catches the end of the scarf and flicks his eyes to Henry, raising his eyebrow encouragingly. “Say it.”

Henry sighs. “Or become a Lost Boy.”

Peter nods. “Then what?”

“I don’t know,” he says, looking down to watch Peter roll his scarf around his hand. “Do whatever Lost Boys do.”

“You know what that is.”

“I thought I did...”

“No,” Peter says, slipping the scarf off Henry’s neck and unwinding it to drape around his own. “You know.”

Peter braces his foot against the tree for leverage and yanks the dagger free. He steps away, giving Henry room to breathe and snaps his fingers. “Coat,” he says, simply.

Henry must realize he’s not going to get around this as, huffily, he acquiesces. He doesn’t even throw the thing, he just holds it out and waits for it to be taken.

“Thank you, Henry.”

Henry mutters something that Peter doesn’t quite catch, but the child is eleven, so it probably wasn’t obscene. 

As it turns out, Henry doesn’t have the qualms about clothing that he’d insisted upon. There’s an almost aura of wonderment around him as he shifts through the clothing and changes into them.

Peter can’t say the same, as he slips on Henry’s jacket. 

He feels idiotic in the thing, but the look on Emma’s face, the crushed, wretched, _hateful_ look on her face, will make it worthwhile.

“It doesn’t seem like it now, but we’re going to be friends.” Henry rolls his eyes, but it’s halfhearted. He looks positively delighted, behind all the animosity between them, with his new Neverland artifacts. “You just misunderstand me. But that’s okay. I like watching you try to figure it out. I might not be the _nicest_ boy you’ve ever met but truly, honestly, I’m not so bad. And whether or not I’m a proper villain remains to be seen. Do know why, Henry?”

“Yes. Because you _are_ the villain.”

Peter laughs, nodding and accepting the accusation, but, “You’re missing the point. You, of all people, should grasp it.”

“Because?”

“Because you’re a child playing ‘fairytales.’”

“And you aren’t?” Henry says snidely. 

“There’s nothing so boring as being the good guy. But playing the villain?” Peter spreads his arms and spins in a circle, beaming.

“I don’t want to ‘play’ evil. Or ‘play’ good. I’m not like you.”

“Fun? Smart? Powerful? Able to protect those who rely on you? Oh! That’s right! You’re just a kid. You’re not expected to. Your job is to be taken care _of_.”

“The villain always tempts the hero. Everyone knows that. Is that all you’ve got?”

“No. It’s not. I’ve something else of great interest to you, in fact.”

“What?”

“Well, look at that. Tempted.”

Henry blinks like the conversation has gotten away from him and Peter knows it’s just a myth, but with all the glaring that Henry’s getting proficient at he thinks maybe, just in this case, his face might freeze like that.

“Time might be hypothetical in Neverland, but there’s always space for patience.”

“And the villain stalls the hero.”

Peter laughs. “Maybe. The villain definitely gives the hero an escort home.”

Peter raises his hand and crooks his finger for proper showmanship. From the darkness of the forest his shadow forms and comes. It circles around them, graceful and so very, very beautiful. 

Henry flinches at the sight of it. There’s something profound and off-putting in the gesture.

Ah, yes. The _last time_ Henry saw his Shadow.

Peter wonders how many murders the boy has witnessed.

“If I give you a hint, will you behave in my absence?”

It’s the illusion of choice. The idea that Henry can willingly decide to obey and not be forced to, but Peter feels it’s still rather magnanimous of him.

“You’ve spoken at length of your mothers, Henry. But I haven’t heard you say a word of your father.”

Henry looks, in equal parts, that he desperately has something to say on the matter and that it would crush him to speak on it.

“I know he’s dead,” Peter says, realizing, even as he’s saying it, that he ought to sound more aggrieved. Henry’s not going to appreciate his father being spoken of in cold facts.

It’s not that he doesn’t care, nor that he does care, he just hasn’t quite sorted out the ramifications of Baelfire’s life.

The Truest Believer’s father. 

The Savior’s lover. 

Peter Pan’s captive.

The Pirate’s son.

The Dark One’s son.

Peter can’t wrap his brain around the fact that those two silly pawns agreed limited knowledge was a practical advantage. Maybe they did deserve to die if, for no other reason, than everyone knows ignorance lends itself to trouble.

“And that you didn’t spend a great deal of time with him, did you?”

Henry looks up and for one interesting moment Peter thinks the child might cry.

“Not like I did.”

“What?”

“I can prove it to you, and I will. But not just yet. Besides, it will give you something to think about on your way home.” Peter smiles cheekily but, this time, it’s Henry who does the correcting.

“ _Your_ home.”

Peter sighs, “Oh, if you insist.” 

When Peter gestures down to the path _home_ , his Shadow holds out its hand for Henry.

The child very deliberately does not take it but Peter thinks he sees yet more fascination in the kid when he looks between the two of them.

It’s the Shadow who shoos Henry along. 

He doesn’t put up a fuss of defiance or shoot out any last parting words. For a moment, he looks just like any other Lost Boy in Neverland.

Peter knows it’ll be his greatest asset, if he plays it right. Fitting in, making friends, falling in line. Lolling everyone into a false sense of security. 

Waiting.

It’s Peter’s job to make Henry believe it. To turn a ruse into a reality. To convince Henry that he _is_ a Lost Boy and is not just playing one. 

Which Peter fully intends to do and expects to succeed, but first the mother. She’ll be easiest to crack, in any case. Emma doesn’t believe in herself, she believes in Henry. 

And it’s only a matter of time before Henry believes in Pan.

**Author's Note:**

> All my love to wily-one24 and agoodflyting for their help and encouragement!


End file.
